


Lux Aeterna

by scrapbullet



Category: Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He doesn’t remember much; save for the face of his father.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lux Aeterna

He doesn’t remember much; save for the face of his father. The data is scrambled, incomprehensible, and any attempt to filter through the corrupted mess leaves him cold, languishing like a wind up doll without a key.

He feels incomplete. Broken. Forgotten. How many cycles have passed? In idle mode there is only the gentle thrum of his CPU, a dissonant purr that is his only source of comfort in the darkness.

He knows nothing. Is nothing.

Blank slate. Empty shell.

Warmth. It fills him up from the inside out, and his subroutines twitch to life. He sighs. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. His vocal processors seem to be in working order though they itch, a phantom pain deep down in the base of his throat.

“Who am I?” His voice sounds strange to his ears, thick and rasping.

Fingers touch his face, exploratory. They follow the lines of his jaw, from one ear to the other, before resting over the thin tracery of his eyelids. He holds his breath. Stunned. Speechless. It feels. Feels. _He feels._

“Your designation is... _Sam_.”

Strange. It seems so familiar. “What is my purpose?”

A laugh. Slow and deep, it is molasses to his sensors. He purrs, unbidden. “To execute my will.”

It’s vague, but it’ll do.

“Open your eyes, kiddo.”

He does. His vision coalesces into a single point, acknowledging his new directive. For too long he has been deaf and blind, his only companion the memory of a man, a man and his infinite potential. To see him now, in all his majestic glory, is awe inspiring.

He falters, breathless. “Dad.”

Clu hums, pleased. “What do you remember, hm?” His body is a furnace against Sam’s back, solid and familiar. Every breath moves in him, through him, shapes and moulds him until energy connects them in a closed circuit.

“You. Just you.” He moans, delirious.

“On your knees.”

He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t, but he must. This is his purpose, the very reason for his existence, and as he drops to his knee’s he buries his face in Clu’s groin, mouthing the clothed erection there with obvious enthusiasm.

Clu doesn’t move. He merely lounges, relaxed. Nonchalant. “Good boy.”

Praise. Affection. He wants it. It pulses through every circuit, emblazoning them an aroused, vivid purple. He wants it. He wants it. The suit derezzes beneath his attentions and for a moment Sam holds his breath, struck by the sudden _wrongness_ of it all. Clu’s body has become as taut as a bow. _What, what did he do? Has he erred? Has he overstepped the boundaries of his programming?_ Panic sets in. His chest tightens.

A nanocycles passes.

Sam bites his lip.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you,” Clu murmurs. He doesn’t sound pleased. There is intrigue, however, hidden beneath the soft cadence of his voice, and he tugs Sam closer, fingers tightening painfully in his hair. “Suck, kiddo. Put that pretty mouth to good use.”

Clu’s cock is a heavy weight on his tongue, hot and smooth. It tastes like molten steel and the raw tang of a battery, almost unpleasant, though it makes his mouth water regardless. He tries to suck it right down to the root but he chokes, too inexperienced, his gag reflex warring against desire. Pulling away Sam coughs, lips slick with saliva.

His circuits crackle with heat and embarrassment.

...Just a minor setback.

Too much, too soon, then. He has to go slower. Careful. Adjust parameters. Sam tongue’s the weeping slit, savouring it before he swallows the head, fingers wrapping around the base. He knows this. He knows the formation of hands and fingers, of the rise and fall and the hitch of hips. Of the pulse of pleasure beneath the flesh. His confidence grows with every nanocycle, sliding down inch by torturous inch, until all there is in his world is the heavy arousal nudging the back of his throat and Clu, panting harsh and deep and exultant.

Sam feels dizzy. Intoxicated. There’s something deep within the well of his chest that thrums, overwhelming.

Pride, or so his processors inform him. His nose buries into the wiry hairs at the very base, his fingers splayed, rest on Clu’s thighs. Those gasping moans above increase in volume, in intensity, and Sam bobs his head in time with the powerful thrusting of hips. Hands, wide and strong, cup his head and hold him in place, locked, balanced, grounded. It’s unrelenting, unceasing, and Sam flounders, quickly losing what little control he has managed to acquire until his mouth is flooded with liquid lightning, sliding down his throat in thick spurts.

It’s too much for his system to handle. His body convulses in a desperate bid to filter through such new sensation. His eyes roll back into his head.

He overloads.

-

There is blood under his fingernails.

It’s dry, flaking. The User, old and frail and obsolete, writhes in agony on the arena floor, red pooling beneath him.

Users are so fragile. Huh.

“We worshipped you, once,” Sam says, and he kneels, pressing his fingers into the gaping wound in the Users abdomen. It illicits such a lovely scream. “What a joke.” It’s messy, so very messy as he slides his hand deep inside, touching things that are soft and wet and red and Sam grimaces. Disgusting.

He tries to speak. _Tries_ being the operative word. Sam leans in close, brushes his lips against the corner of the mouth, and smiles. “Any last words, old man?”

Lips part, eyes glassy. A croak escapes the old man’s lips; a word, just one, and Sam growls, anger thudding rapidly in his ribcage.

 _Sorry_.

“I don’t need your pathetic platitudes, _User_.”

The crowd roars, euphoric. Their chants only serve to spur him on, as the struggles of the oppressor become weak and disconsolate. Organs crush beneath Sam’s fingers. He squeezes, and something pops, leaking a viscous, foul-smelling fluid.

The oppressor stills. He’s gone.

How disappointing.

“I’m proud of you.”

Sam turns. Clu, a god in black and gold and exuding energy, cups his cheek, and kisses him.

There is blood under his fingernails.


End file.
